


Rouge Alpha

by CracklPop



Series: Cosmetics King Peter Hale AU [1]
Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - Werewolves Are Known, Different Hale Fire, M/M, Peter Hale Is a Successful Businessman, Stiles Stilinski Is His Temporary Assistant
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-03
Updated: 2019-09-03
Packaged: 2020-10-06 01:21:51
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,799
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20498546
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CracklPop/pseuds/CracklPop
Summary: Stiles Stilinski shows up for his summer job at Hale Cosmetics to find his boss isveryfamiliar-looking.





	Rouge Alpha

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Bunnywest](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Bunnywest/gifts).

> Dear Bunnywest,  
I hope you enjoy this!
> 
> Disclaimer: I don't own these characters or make any money from them.

“It’s not technically a closet if it was built to be a spare bedroom,” Lydia said, pushing aside a free-standing rack—one of five—and pursing her lips at her stepbrother.

“If it’s being used to store clothing and you call it _my walk-in closet_, it’s a closet,” Stiles argued. “Its actual, literal function is as a closet, therefore it _technically_ is your closet.”

“But it was _built_ to be a spare bedroom,” Lydia replied. 

“Well, so to the architect, it was _technically_ a spare bedroom, but to you it’s _technically_ a closet. And since you live in this apartment, I would say _your_ official designation for the space is the one that counts.” 

“For fuck’s sake, Stiles, do you want to stay here this summer or not?” Lydia tapped her toe impatiently, gesturing with annoyance at the air mattress wedged between boxes of shoes. 

“In your closet,” Stiles said. “Do I want to spend the summer in your closet.”

“Would you prefer the sidewalk outside the building?” Lydia demanded. 

“I just think that when our parents asked you to let me rent this room, they probably imagined you’d clear some of this shit out. Honestly, who needs…two, four, six, _eight_ green dresses?” 

“Green is my color,” Lydia replied icily. “And each of them is a wildly different shade. You can’t expect me to settle for emerald when I need something olive.”

“Of course not. How could I suggest you temporarily store even one of your _eight green dresses_ somewhere else for three months so I could have some space to, I don’t know, sleep on an actual bed?” Stiles shot her an irritated glance. “I _am_ paying you for this room, remember? And I don’t recall being told that the money was for the privilege of living amidst a staggering number of…are these all winter coats? This is San Francisco, not Siberia. Why do you have fifteen wool coats?”

“They’re different colors,” Lydia snapped. “And you’re getting a great deal on rent.”

“Whatever,” Stiles muttered, dropping his bags on the air mattress then watching them bounce right off onto the floor. “This _great deal_ better include coffee.” 

“Machine’s on the fritz,” Lydia replied, tossing her hair back and starting toward the door. “Besides, you’ll have to hit the espresso bar in the Hale Cosmetics lobby every morning anyway. Peter likes his coffee very hot.”

“Peter likes his coffee very hot,” Stiles mimicked in an undertone as Lydia shut the door behind her. Once she was gone, he sank down on the air mattress and lay back with a sigh that fluttered the ruffled hem of a garnet-colored skirt just above his head. 

He glanced around the room again, a wry smile on his face as he remembered the encouragement Lydia’s mom, Natalie, and his own dad had given him when he announced his intention to move to the same city as his stepsister. 

_I know you two never really got the chance to connect after you moved back out here in high school. This will be a great opportunity to get to know each other better_, Noah Stilinski had said, and Natalie had nodded in sympathetic agreement. 

_This will be a good change for you_, she’d added. _And your father and I are both so happy you’ve come back to the West Coast. You and Lydia can carpool home!_

Stiles scrubbed his hands through his hair with a tired groan. Maybe he should’ve stayed in Chicago. The rent was cheaper, that was for damn sure. But Chicago had its own problems, like being permeated with bittersweet memories of his grandparents. Stiles had found it hard to live in the city of his childhood again and not feel as though if he just turned around quickly enough, Dziadziu and Babciu would be there still. 

He’d done it for undergrad, because going to Dziadziu’s alma mater was important to him, and he’d even lasted a year afterward, since his asshole ex-boyfriend was a tenured professor at Northwestern. But when that relationship had imploded, Stiles had just wanted to leave. He’d taken his unexpected admission to UC Berkeley’s supernatural studies doctoral program and run toward it. At least his dad and step-mom had been supportive.

Stiles tugged absently at his hair and gazed at a row of painful-looking, high-heeled shoes without really seeing them. Lydia _had_ done him a favor lining up the temporary job with Hale Cosmetics, despite the fact that his undergrad degree in supernatural history hadn’t really qualified him for anything at the company. Even the lowly position of assistant to the assistant of the CEO. Stiles knew he wasn’t going to be entrusted with the _actual_ work Peter Hale’s real assistant handled. Peter had only given in to Lydia’s request because he didn’t want to upset a woman who was both a rising star in his R&D department and the long-time girlfriend of a Hale pack beta. 

Stiles could have written a graduate-level dissertation on why the Hale pack’s dynamics were weird—two alphas in one pack was unusual, if not outright asking for trouble—but essentially, it was in Peter’s best interest to maintain a good relationship with the pack alpha, Laura, and not be perceived as too aggressive about getting his own way, at least in terms of pack interactions. Thus, pleasing the girlfriend of one of Laura’s betas. 

Thus…Stiles having a lot of _very hot_ coffee runs in his near future. 

He rolled off the air mattress onto the hardwood floor and unpacked his bags, eventually putting his clothing in precariously balanced piles on top of two separate jewelry armoires and his laptop on a pair of shoeboxes next to the bed. Stiles plugged in his phone and started texting with Scott. 

SS: _got in this afternoon. Dinner?_

SM: _chinese food @ 22/geary? isaac and allie also coming. k?_

SS: _sounds good_

Stiles locked his screen and walked out of his closet room to take a shower and poke around Lydia’s kitchen. He hadn’t been counting on the presence of Lydia’s boyfriend, and he wished he’d told Scott to meet earlier so he could leave right away. 

“Hey Jackson,” Stiles said, giving the werewolf sprawled on Lydia’s cool green sofa a mocking salute. 

“Stilinski,” Jackson smirked at him. “Enjoying your time back in the closet?”

Stiles felt unequal to the task of rolling his eyes hard enough. 

“You’re fucking hilarious,” he muttered, flipping his middle finger up. “Just because I never wanted to sleep with you doesn’t mean I was ever in the closet,” he added, unable to keep his mouth shut. Something about Jackson had always annoyed him. His self-satisfaction? His miserable sense of humor? His stupid face? 

“Lydia’s in the bathroom,” Jackson told him as Stiles moved in that direction. 

“Great,” Stiles replied. “Thanks.” 

He turned around and went to the kitchen, where he inventoried Lydia’s sparsely populated refrigerator and finally settled on eating condiments by squirting them onto his fingers. The various mustards in particular made wonderfully obnoxious noises and Stiles took too much pleasure in Jackson’s winces every time the bottles were squeezed. Werewolf hearing was a marvel. 

“Don’t you have somewhere to be?” Jackson asked after Stiles had worked his way up to the crunchiest crackers he could find in Lydia’s pantry. “Isn’t McCall supposed to meet you somewhere?”

“Yeah, in, like, two hours,” Stiles replied, pouring himself a glass of orange juice and slurping it loudly. 

“Can you _try_ to keep it down in there?” Jackson growled. “You’re just as much of a shit as you were in high school. And you still look like you’re fourteen.”

“Fuck off,” Stiles responded cheerfully. It was easy to set Jackson off, but so satisfying. 

Lydia chose that moment to reappear, makeup refreshed and hair expertly blown out. 

“Ready?” she asked Jackson, and Stiles was amazed she didn’t snap her fingers to get him to heel. 

“Where’re you headed?” Stiles asked, lounging against the counter. 

“We’re helping Derek get ready for some kind of charity event,” Jackson answered, following as Lydia walked with quick, purposeful clicks of her heels toward the front door. 

“Oh, yeah, the arts in the schools program,” Stiles said, nodding. 

“How do you know anything about it?” Jackson sneered. “You’re not even an honorary pack member.” 

“Because Derek, unlike some people, is a friend of mine,” Stiles said. “He does this thing where he’s polite and fun to be around. Nothing you’re familiar with, I’m sure.” 

Jackson made a rude gesture right before Lydia dragged him out. 

“Don’t touch my stuff, Stiles,” she called as they left. 

“Sure thing, sis.” 

Stiles promptly put the crackers away and wandered around the apartment, making mental notes of anything interesting. He meandered to the shower once he’d satisfied his curiosity, then headed out to the restaurant where he was supposed to meet up with Scott, Isaac, and Allison. 

He got there early enough that he didn’t feel like waiting alone at a table, so he went into the bar next door. The main room was decorated with lots of dark red fabric and battered-looking, slightly off-kilter tables. The air hadn’t seen cigarette smoke in more than two decades, but it still retained a hazy quality, and there was a persistent smell of cheap vodka. Stiles adored it. 

It was astonishing the place was surviving, given its complete lack of effort in changing with the times. Stiles was willing to bet the booths hadn’t been updated since the neighborhood’s long-ago downmarket days. 

The bar itself was a long, scarred surface with mismatched stools that were mostly occupied by older patrons sipping glasses of undiluted liquor. 

Stiles found an empty seat next to a man with a head of dark brown hair whose face rested in an upturned palm, a nearly empty bottle of wolfsbane beer in front of him. Stiles ordered a standard whiskey neat and ran a discreet eye over his neighbor. This wasn’t the kind of bar werewolves usually drank in. Shifters on the whole preferred cleaner watering holes with no discernible odors other than those of their preferred beverage. 

“Long day?” Stiles asked. The werewolf’s shoulders were awfully broad, and the fingers of the hand that hid his face were elegant but thick. 

“Long year,” the werewolf replied, rubbing his jaw before glancing over at Stiles. The glance lingered, becoming more of an appraisal. “I haven’t run into you here before.”

“I’m new,” Stiles said, taking a swallow of his whiskey and watching the werewolf watch his throat. He set the glass down and gave the shifter his best sultry glance. It helped to have ridiculously long eyelashes at times like this. “I don’t really see you as a regular here. It seems a little…pungent for werewolf tastes.” 

“Exactly,” the shifter said. “There’s no chance of running into any pack members.”

“Family’s complicated,” Stiles agreed, drawing the pad of a finger around the edge of his glass.

The werewolf’s blue eyes slowly moved from that finger up to Stiles’ face, where they remained, a faintly predatory light shining in them. 

“Yes, it is,” he said, straightening enough on his barstool that Stiles had to look up a little to meet his gaze. 

“Big plans tonight?” Stiles asked, taking another sip. 

“Nothing immediate,” the werewolf answered. 

Stiles licked his lips deliberately and shifted the hand on his drink so that it was closer to the werewolf’s beer bottle. 

“I’m Mietek,” he said. 

“You can call me…Simon,” the werewolf offered, letting his own fingers rest about a hair’s width from Stiles’. 

“Simon, huh?” Stiles cast the werewolf an amused look, willing to bet quite a lot that his real first name didn’t have a single letter in common with _Simon_. “How about if I call you…alpha?” 

Simon’s eyes flashed red for less than a second, but it was enough to satisfy Stiles that his guess was correct. He _loved_ being right. Stiles mentally discarded the name Simon altogether and relabeled the werewolf _Hot Alpha_ instead. 

“I have no doubt I’d find that very stimulating under certain circumstances,” Hot Alpha growled. Stiles rolled his eyes at the pretension of the reply but couldn’t deny there was something, well, _hot_ about fake-Simon’s combination of arrogance and attractiveness. 

Stiles knocked back the rest of his drink and nodded toward the gloomy-looking hall that led to the bathroom. 

“I’d love to see if you can still sound that pompous with my mouth on your cock,” he murmured, voice raspy from the whiskey burn. Hot Alpha made a very satisfactory noise, something between a groan and a snarl, and his eyes followed every move as Stiles deposited a generous tip on the bar and headed into the back hallway. 

Stiles had just reached the crookedly hung door of the bathroom when Hot Alpha came up behind him, pushing them both into the small space and flipping the lock closed. Hot Alpha’s face certainly lived up to his nickname, Stiles thought appreciatively, enjoying the werewolf’s sharply handsome features. He didn’t get to look at them for long, since Hot Alpha apparently had taken Stiles at his word, and was urging him down to his knees on the cracked and dirty tile flooring. 

Getting into the spirit of a random hookup fueled entirely by lust, Stiles eagerly unfastened Hot Alpha’s expensive-looking jeans. He found that not only did Hot Alpha go commando, he also had a very, _very_ nice cock. Stiles wasted no time applying his tongue and lips, murmuring in pleasure when he finally got the head into his mouth. 

“Mmmm….Mietek,” Hot Alpha said above him, voice admirably steady despite the suppressed moans that escaped periodically. “That’s—ah—Polish, I assume?” 

Stiles, having worked up to getting more than half Hot Alpha’s dick in his mouth and using every trick he knew, took it as a personal affront that the werewolf could still form coherent sentences. He focused on his breathing and slowly let Hot Alpha’s length slide all the way down his throat, until Stiles’ nose was brushing against the supernaturally warm skin at the base of the werewolf’s cock. 

“Fuuuuuuuuck,” Hot Alpha got out between pants. Stiles mentally grinned, congratulating himself on a blow job well done. So far, at least. 

He pulled back then established a steady and—from what he’d been told in the past—mind-melting pattern of sucking and swallowing. It took a gratifyingly short time for Hot Alpha to tense up, his strong fingers gripping Stiles’ hair sharply before he came in heated pulses on Stiles’ face, in his mouth, down his chin. 

Stiles ignored his own insistent erection and gently licked the softening dick in front of him as he stared up at the pleasure-dazed expression on Hot Alpha’s face.

“That…was….” Hot Alpha trailed off, then gave up on talking and braced a hand against the ominously stained wall. 

“Brilliant? Unparalleled? Worthy of adulation?” Stiles suggested in a gravelly voice, still a little breathless. “I would have thought—” he pressed on his hard dick, resisting the urge to just yank his pants open and bring himself off “—such an articulate man would have more impressive adjectives ready. Or, you know, _any_ adjectives.” 

Hot Alpha’s face was somewhere between irritated and impressed. 

“You’re a mouthy thing, aren’t you?” He raised his eyebrows, looking steadier on his feet. 

Stiles shrugged and rose to his full height, which put him nearly eye level with Hot Alpha. 

“You seemed to enjoy it a few minutes ago,” Stiles pointed out. 

“True,” Hot Alpha conceded, taking a deliberate step forward that put them chest to chest. Some remnant of evolutionary caution made Stiles edge back. The predatory light was back in Hot Alpha’s eyes, and Stiles suddenly felt like prey. 

He didn’t dislike it, necessarily, but he was aware that none of the bar’s occupants had looked likely to intercede on his behalf if things went a bad direction. 

Hot Alpha crowded Stiles against the grimy wall, getting a firm grip in his hair and snaking the other hand between their bodies to unfasten Stiles’ pants and free his still-enthusiastic cock. Stiles opened his mouth, intending to protest…something—the grossness of the wall he was pressed against? The borderline-painful twisting of his hair? The menacing air of his potentially ill-advised sexual partner? 

But instead what came out was a drawn-out whimper when Hot Alpha pulled Stiles’ head to the side, bared his neck, and set his lips to the tender junction of neck and shoulder. Hot Alpha nibbled and sucked and outright bit, never breaking the skin but leaving behind a mark that would take days to fade. 

Stiles helplessly rutted against the hard, muscled body plastered to his, whimpering again when Hot Alpha’s strong fingers wrapped around his cock and gave him something to fuck into. When Hot Alpha got tired of marking Stiles’ neck, he released Stiles’ hair and brought his fingers down to trail over Stiles’ nipples through his thin t-shirt. 

The teasing touches turned into maddening, unpredictable circles. Stiles tried to push into his tormenter, wanting everything _harder_. But Hot Alpha’s fingers remained too light on Stiles’ nipples to satisfy and too loose on his cock for Stiles to finish.

“Feel good?” Hot Alpha asked in a sly murmur. “Why don’t you tell me about it?”

“Nnnmmm,” Stiles replied, the bruise on his neck throbbing in time with his heart and his dick and his sensitized chest. 

“Oh?” Hot Alpha’s voice was full of sugary false sympathy. “It sounds like you’re having trouble with your…adjectives.”

“F-fuck you,” Stiles spat, unable to control the rocking of his hips or the way he bit his lip in frustration. 

Hot Alpha made a chiding noise with his tongue and cupped Stiles’ face, smoothing a thumb over his cheekbone. 

“You really are lovely like this,” he said. “I’m enjoying you very much.”

Inevitably, the praise made Stiles’ cheeks flush and his cock leak. 

“Oh, you like that, hm?” Hot Alpha was probably incapable of sounding more smug. 

“N-nothing…personal,” Stiles gasped, determined to go down fighting. “It’s…a….th-thing for me. You could b-be anyone, really.” 

“I see.” Hot Alpha was displeased but not, Stiles realized a second later, even close to defeated. The werewolf shifted closer, tongue tracing a wet path down the curve of Stiles’ ear to his lobe, where he bit down while pinching Stiles’ left nipple hard. 

Stiles bucked up into the hand circling his cock and Hot Alpha tightened his fingers, allowing Stiles momentary bliss. 

“Ahhh,” Stiles moaned. “F-f-fuck, that’s…so…good.” 

The werewolf’s grasp gentled again and Stiles banged his head against the wall in frustration. 

“Anyone could make you feel like this?” Hot Alpha purred. “Nothing special about me, hm?” 

He worked Stiles’ cock harder, bringing him right up to the edge of orgasm before slowing his movements. Stiles bit the inside of his mouth to stop what would otherwise become a ceaseless string of whimpers. 

Hot Alpha’s thick fingers sneaked down the small of Stiles’ back, drawing a line of heat as they moved into his crease, right to the sensitive skin just above his hole. Stiles briefly held his breath, anticipation making him quiver. 

Then the werewolf skated over Stiles’ puckered opening and went straight to the smooth place just behind his balls. Stiles shuddered at the light touch, then let out a loud whine when Hot Alpha pressed down on the skin there at the same time that he jerked Stiles’ dick repeatedly with the perfect amount of force. 

Stiles thought he’d fall over the edge then for sure, but Hot Alpha had other plans and mercilessly gripped the base of Stiles’ cock, staving off orgasm. Stiles groaned and seized the werewolf’s shoulders in as painful a grip as he could.

Hot Alpha slid one broad palm over Stiles’ throat, all threat and no pressure, and Stiles trembled, more fluid dampening the head of his cock. 

“So lovely,” Hot Alpha whispered again. 

“Much…lovelier…” Stiles kneaded the werewolf’s shoulders in desperation “…when I come…promise.” 

That got him a wicked chuckle, then Hot Alpha spat on his hand and took hold of Stiles with more deliberate motions, his saliva mixing with copious precome to create a smooth glide up and down Stiles’ length. 

Stiles’ hips moved in grateful time with the hand stroking him, and when Hot Alpha growled at him to _come_, Stiles obeyed without a second’s delay, spurting high enough to hit his own face. 

Dizzy and weak-kneed in the aftermath, Stiles started to slide down the wall. He could tell Hot Alpha was saying something, but his ears registered every sound as muffled and unimportant. 

“…clean yourself,” Stiles heard eventually, and he blinked up to see Hot Alpha standing over him impatiently, holding a damp paper towel that dripped once on Stiles’ head. 

“Ah, thanks,” Stiles managed, taking the offering and mostly smearing the semen on his face around. “Fuck,” he muttered, rising on unsteady legs to totter over to the chipped sink and peer into a distorted mirror. 

“You’ve got some—” Hot Alpha’s self-satisfied smirk was in full force as he made a vague gesture encompassing Stiles’ entire upper half. 

“Yeah, great, thank you for letting me know,” Stiles snarked, working through the majority of the available paper toweling to bring a semblance of respectability to his appearance. Not, of course, that it did much good in terms of odor. Scott and Isaac would probably smell him from outside the restaurant. 

Still, Stiles thought, glancing over at the prime specimen of supernatural were-creature lounging against the other sink, it was worth it. He straightened and gave Hot Alpha a curious look as he tossed the last of his used paper towel in the trash. 

“Is this a regular thing for you?” Stiles wondered. 

“Drinking in this bar? Not really,” Hot Alpha said, smoothing the front of his shirt and adjusting the cuffs beneath his expertly fitted jacket, until he looked as though he’d spent the last half hour sitting in a library reading. Stiles, who had myriad stains on his knees and streaked down both the back and front of his shirt, settled for turning his top inside out and being thankful there wasn’t an obvious logo.

“Forget it,” Stiles said, shrugging. He started toward the door, flipping the lock up before turning back. “Thanks. That was…fun.”

“Likewise,” Hot Alpha returned. 

“Well, I’ve gotta meet these people for dinner, so….” Stiles started to offer his hand, realized it was weird, and settled on giving Hot Alpha a quick smile before leaving. 

He didn’t look back, just kept going until he was out on the sidewalk again, then gave himself a brisk and mostly useless pep talk to get his head out of dirty-bathroom-sex land and back into seeing-old-friends-for-innocent-dinner land. 

When Stiles rolled up to the table where his friends were sitting, Scott and Isaac had identical and equally offended expressions, noses wrinkled. 

“Hi, Stiles!” Allison chirped. 

Scott gave Stiles a resigned look. 

“I was early and I got a drink next door,” Stiles explained. 

“Must’ve been quite a drink,” Isaac said with a snort. 

“I’d say 1980s vintage,” Stiles replied. 

“That is your preferred decade,” Isaac agreed. 

Scott had already forgiven Stiles the I-just-had-sex smell, and his face had reverted to its usual beam of goodwill. 

“It means you’re moving on,” Scott said. “I’m happy about that, anyway.”

“Yeah, new city, new job…summer loving as far as the eye can see.” Stiles grinned sharply. 

“You deserve it, after the way that jerk left things,” Allison interjected. Stiles’ expression softened when he looked at her. 

“Thanks,” he said. 

“It’s going to be great having you nearby again,” Scott enthused. “Oh! Isaac just found out his roommate’s moving out in the fall, so if you haven’t lined up grad housing already, you could move in with him in a few months.” 

Stiles cast a quick look at Isaac. They hadn’t always gotten along, despite Scott’s sunny determination for all his friends to bond. In fact, in high school Isaac had been kind of an asshole, running with Jackson and his group of werewolf lacrosse stars. Scott had also been part of their crowd, but he was somehow capable of also maintaining relationships with the unpopular human nerds. Among whom Stiles had been numbered all three of his years at Beacon Hills High School. 

But Isaac had mellowed since his teenage days—all of Laura’s pack had done a fair bit of growing up once they’d left Beacon Hills for a bigger city. When Stiles had returned to the Stilinski-Martin house in California from Northwestern for university holidays, he and Isaac had been surprisingly compatible. 

It helped that Scott had sort of abandoned them both for a while there, wrapped up in his epic romance with Allison Argent of ArgentCare, a company that not only served as a business rival to Hale Cosmetics, but also had employed Allison’s anti-werewolf advocate Aunt Kate, a convicted arsonist. Suffice it to say, Laura, Derek, and Peter Hale had been livid when it came out that the UCSF classmate Scott was seeing was Allison. 

From what Scott had told Stiles, who’d been on the other side of the country while the drama unfolded, Laura had threatened to kick Scott out of the pack, Derek had given him a lot of sad, heart-wrenching talks, and Peter had sabotaged an ArgentCare government contract for liquid hand soap. 

Stiles realized he’d allowed a noticeable pause after Scott’s offer and hastily opened his mouth to respond. 

“No pressure,” Scott added before Stiles could say anything. “I know you’re crashing with Lydia for the summer, and she’s family and everything, so if you’re looking to set something longer-term up with her—”

“Nope, definitely not looking to do that,” Stiles broke in. “If Isaac doesn’t mind living with me, I’d appreciate a place that isn’t school housing and isn’t…uh…family.” 

Scott shot him a sympathetic smile. 

“Still weird sometimes to think of you guys as siblings.”

“Same here. Honestly, I don’t know that we think of each other that way, really,” Stiles said. “I only kind of remembered Lydia from elementary school, and then when I saw her again, our parents were already a done deal.” He took a bite of crispy chicken and shrugged. “She did get me the temp job with Hale Cosmetics.” 

“Right, you’re working directly for the Rouge Alpha himself,” Allison said, then flushed when Scott winced at the name. “I mean…Peter Hale.” 

“Rouge Alpha?” Stiles questioned, brows lifted. 

“It’s stupid,” Allison muttered, still blushing. “It’s…like, in the industry, that’s what…some people…call him. Because he runs a cosmetics company that makes, you know, makeup.” 

“Ah,” Stiles said, face clearing. “The old-school, traditionalist wolf mentality. Of course it’s somehow shameful for an alpha werewolf to make lipstick, no matter how successful he is.” He tilted his head toward Scott, curious. “Does it bother Peter?”

“At this point, nah. He probably laughs all the way to the bank, I guess. Maybe in the beginning he didn’t appreciate it, who knows? I wasn’t part of the pack then. But Hale Cosmetics is Peter’s life now.” 

“I read about the company when Lydia got a job there after graduation,” Stiles said. “What Peter did is impressive. Even if it does sound like the most interaction I’m going to have with him is making sure his coffee is _very hot_.” 

“I don’t know if I’d want more contact with Peter than that,” Isaac said. “He can be kind of abrasive.”

“He’s avoided me,” Allison sighed. “Not that I can blame him.”

It was Stiles’ turn to wince, thinking about the fire Allison’s aunt had started during a holiday party at the old Hale Cosmetics building. The blaze had killed the company founder, Peter’s sister Talia, in addition to her husband and three employees, and it had scarred Peter terribly, beyond the ability of his supernatural healing to erase.

But Peter had come out on top, in the end. He’d formulated his own version of the family’s skin cream and faded his scars to nothing. Then he’d patented the process and set about making Hale Cosmetics the dominant were-friendly makeup and skin care company in the country. 

“Give him a chance to come around, Allie,” Scott was saying earnestly, fingers twined with Allison’s. “I know he’ll like you once he gets a chance to know you. I mean, it’s not your fault Kate did what she did. He’ll feel the same way, I’m sure.”

Stiles privately felt this view was extremely optimistic—possibly to the point of delusion—but he held his tongue and ate some steamed salty eggs with pork. 

Isaac, he noticed, was doing the same thing. Their eyes met briefly in a shared moment of _Scott’s the nicest person in the world! But also maybe out of touch with reality._ Stiles had never met Peter Hale, but nothing he’d heard from Lydia or Scott or Isaac—or even Jackson—had ever suggested the second Hale alpha was particularly forgiving or easy-going. The impression Stiles had gotten was that Peter Hale was ruthless, self-absorbed, and ambitious. 

“When do you start work?” Isaac asked Stiles, as Scott and Allison gave each other dreamy looks over the shrimp with lobster sauce. 

“Tomorrow morning, bright and early,” Stiles replied, reconsidering the third drink he’d been about to order. 

“Well, good luck,” Isaac lifted his water glass in salute. 

Stiles went back to his closet room that night with his share of the leftovers and a pleasant, low-key buzz. The streets were damp from an unexpected rain shower earlier that evening, and the air was cool against his cheeks as he walked a few blocks before hailing a ride back to Lydia’s place in the northeast part of the city. 

He let his head rest against the chilled glass of the cab’s window, watching the streetlights and lamp-lit houses rush past in a gentle blur. When the car let him out in front of Lydia’s building, Stiles took a minute to stretch, inhaling the scents of night-blooming cereus and a neighbor’s grilled steak. 

Lydia had disappeared into her bedroom for the night when he got upstairs, so Stiles locked up, poured himself a glass of water, and got ready for bed. When he curled up under the blankets on his air mattress, his thoughts drifted to Hot Alpha and his bright, knowing blue eyes. And his long, thick cock. And his…Stiles fell asleep imagining what it would be like to be pinned beneath all that alpha strength and fucked until he was filled. His dreams were extremely agreeable.

The next morning, Stiles caught a ride with Lydia to the gleaming high-rise that housed Hale Cosmetics. She had grudgingly admitted that Stiles’ sense of fashion had improved dramatically from his teenage years, although she’d still sniffed at the slightly crazed bedhead look his hair adopted naturally. For a long time, Stiles’ solution had been a buzz cut, but after a while he’d accepted that _Eccentric Genius and/or Startled Bird_ might just be his hair’s destiny and grown it out. 

Lydia abandoned him at the front desk and sailed off to the R&D floor. Stiles dutifully filled out security and tax paperwork, got his badge, then re-checked the email he’d gotten last night from Peter’s real assistant, a Marin Morrell. She’d instructed him to get Peter a caffe breve—temperature: hot—and have it ready on his desk by eight o’clock. She had also insinuated that this would likely be Stiles’ only regular face-to-face time with the great man, as she had been working with him for years and they already had their routines sorted out. Regardless of what one Lydia Martin might think. 

Stiles anticipated a lot of copy-room time in his future, possibly some field trips out to lunch places. Maybe, if Marin resented Lydia’s interference as much as her coolly worded email seemed to indicate, some make-work in a dusty basement, if there was such a place in the building. 

He secured the coffee and took the elevator up to the top level, indulging in a silly grin when his ID badge got him past the floors guests were unable to access. When the elevator dinged and let him out, Stiles took in the unforgiving lines and stark whites of Peter Hale’s executive floor. 

The atmosphere made Stiles want to wipe the soles of his shoes off before venturing onto the polished floors, but he resisted the impulse and walked forward, coffee carefully held in front of him. There was a young, blonde woman at the desk just beyond the elevator doors. She flicked an assessing glance over Stiles then curved her lips up into a bright red smile. 

“You’ve grown up,” she observed. 

“Erica?” Stiles blinked. 

“So you do remember me.”

“Hard to forget,” Stiles admitted. She preened a little, flipping a glossy curl back over her shoulder. 

“I hear Lydia bypassed Marin to get you this job,” she said in a low voice. 

“I’m getting that impression,” Stiles said. “Are you—”

He was interrupted when the door behind Erica’s desk was opened abruptly by a slim, dark-haired woman with a thin-lipped expression. 

“Mr. Stilinski, I assume,” the woman said. 

“Yes, that’s me,” Stiles replied. “Ms. Morrell?”

She gave a curt nod and gestured him forward. 

“Mr. Hale is waiting.” 

Stiles mouthed _wish me luck_ at Erica, then squared his shoulders and walked through the doorway into the office beyond. 

The room was dominated by a large, wooden desk, and there was a man leaning against its edge, his posture relaxed. Stiles supposed there was probably other, office-type furniture around him, but once he’d seen the man’s face, he might as well have been in an empty room for all the attention he gave it. 

“_You’re_ Peter Hale?” Stiles finally got out, in what he later refused to admit was a squeak.

Because the Peter Hale standing in front of him wasn’t just the Rouge Alpha, king of werewolf cosmetics. Oh, no. He was also Hot Alpha, the man who’d taken Stiles apart in the bathroom of a dive bar and given him the best orgasm of his life. 

_No. Fucking. Way. _

Hot Alpha Peter Hale had tensed when Stiles walked in, but in seconds his surprise evaporated, and his face took on something much closer to predatory. Again.

Stiles wanted to sink into the extremely expensive, hand-woven rug beneath his feet and come out somewhere on the ground floor, far, far away from Peter Hale’s knowing smirk.

“Hello, Mister…Stilinski, is it? Allow me to welcome you to Hale Cosmetics. I think we’re going to have a productive summer together.” Peter’s eyes briefly flashed red and his smile was sharp. “A _very_ productive summer.”

**Author's Note:**

> There will be Further Adventures. Cosmetics King Peter Hale, the Rouge Alpha, will return...as will his saucy assistant.


End file.
